


Make It Sure, Make It True

by RobinLorin



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Post-Season/Series 02, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 01:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14177910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLorin/pseuds/RobinLorin





	Make It Sure, Make It True

“If you die, your wife is gonna kill ya.” 

D’Artagnan couldn’t help the smile that always threatened when someone referred to Constance as his wife – seven years, and it hadn’t waned. Nevertheless, he shot Porthos a look and said firmly, “ _Our_ wife.” 

Porthos shrugged. “Your wife,” he repeated, pulling on his gloves and tightening his bandanna. “There’s only one husband for each wife, so the Church says. I guess I’m old-fashioned that way.” 

“That’s not what you were saying last night,” d’Artagnan teased, just to see Porthos grin and pretend nonchalance. 

“I never said we were married last night,” Porthos said. 

“But you blasphemed far too many times to use the word of the Church as defense.” 

Porthos snorted. He opened his mouth, undoubtedly about to make note of how many times d’Artagnan had seduced him unto sin, when the call to action signaled across the rows of soldiers. 

Porthos’ mouth closed into a thin grimace. D’Artagnan pulled him into a hug – hand over hand, reeling Porthos in until d’Artagnan’s nose was buried in Porthos’ neck, Porthos’ hands large and steady on d’Artagnan’s back. 

“I love you,” d’Artagnan whispered, as he always did. He could never go to fight without knowing that, if d’Artagnan should ever fall, Porthos could hold this one most important truth of d’Artagnan’s heart close to his own. He waited anxiously until Porthos rumbled, “I know,” and then he squeezed Porthos’ bulk one last time and stepped away. 

It was time to leave entanglements behind. 

Porthos, d’Artagnan knew, could fight just as well, maybe better, with d’Artagnan or even Constance by his side; he was stronger for the knowledge that he was protecting those he loved. D’Artagnan could not operate the same way. Athos had taught him long ago to leave everything behind when he fought: thoughts of Constance, Porthos, his brothers in arms, his home, LaBarge or the latest enemy… it all had to fade away and leave d’Artagnan with only the sharp clarity of movement. 

He took Porthos’ clap on the back and, with one last steadying breath, nodded to his battalion of men. He moved to take his place at the front of the squad, leaving Porthos with his own troops. 

They moved to their place on the soon-to-be battlefield: the still-unmarred stretch of grass and trees that would provide little cover for French troops. The enemy would come out of the scraggly trees – downhill, a slight advantage – and then they too would be in open air. It was a good plan, as far as d’Artagnan could judge, though he couldn’t help but critique it in the silence of his own mind. And he had plenty of time to do it, waiting as the sun rose higher and nothing broke the silence but a few timid bird calls. 

Constance had been teaching him about battle strategy recently, on their last furlough – months ago now. Though he knew the that battles were often incomprehensible and slow until one looked at the entire picture, d’Artagnan couldn’t help but think that it would do the higher-ups some good to crouch in a muddy field at daybreak for hours until a horde of enemy soldiers charged at them with swords and pistols drawn. 

Maybe if they’d had such practical lessons years ago, France never would have been invaded by all the scavengers who’d taken the war with Spain as an opportunity to try to win their independence from the nation. D’Artagnan could have been back at the garrison, watching Constance patch up some poor recruit instead of breathing thinly to avoid irritating his bruised – maybe cracked – ribs. He could have been sneaking kisses from Porthos in the cool alleyways of Paris on patrol instead of stealing these too-quick touches before battle. He could have been sleeping soundly in a bed big enough for the three of them, listening to the bustle of Paris outside their window instead of straining his ears for sounds of clanking weaponry. 

D’Artagnan had never thought that he would miss the city, country boy as he was. But he missed the noise of the living, after so long delivering death; he missed the touch and press of people all going their own ways; missed his and Porthos’ favorite tavern; missed the smell of Constance’s poultices and her tuneless hum when she was concentrating. He missed Constance’s arm around him, and Porthos’ bulk beside him, relaxed for once instead of the constantly wound tension that’d had him in its grip for months now. 

D’Artagnan’s eye wandered over the field, picking out Porthos in the shadow of a copse of trees. His gaze lingered there, one, two, three beats. A moment too long. 

The enemy was upon them in a rush and a roar, so sudden that d’Artagnan jolted up without considering their position properly. He met their swords with his own, easily parrying their swings and dispatching each soldier as he charged. The slope of the ground was already working to their advantage: one man fired a shot at d’Artagnan, but his aim was too low; it went straight through d’Artagnan legs and he was able to take a single step and gut the man easily. 

These soldiers wore no formal uniform – they were a conglomeration of different forces, united in their last desperate stand against France. D’Artagnan worked on the assumption that anyone not wearing the official uniform of France was the enemy, methodically cutting down any who stood in his way. His body and mind were unfettered by thoughts of any attachments or emotions: in this moment, on this field, he was a soldier doing his job – exquisitely, yes, in fine form. But it was a job all the same. He was a soldier of France and he was doing his duty. 

A horn sounded from behind: a call to reorganize and attack afresh. D’Artagnan kept track of his men as they moved to a new point of advantage. Two down, one being hastily taken back to the medical tents; the rest with him. Then the next wave of the enemy was surging toward them. 

That wave was followed by another, so close they could have been one. The attack was strategically weak, Constance would have said; the enemy could not sustain these numbers for long. But d’Artagnan soon realized that they did not mean to. 

This was the end of the war, as the generals and the king had hoped. This was the enemy’s last stand. Their resources were run out; their numbers dwindled; their position indefensible. The eyes of the soldiers clambering over the bodies of the dead were wide and desperate and completely devoid of fear. They would die here, but they would wear the French soldiers into the ground; they would take the French with them. 

It was impossible to tell whether it was the distraction of this realization, or a lucky hit, that left d’Artagnan’s defense open enough for an enemy sword to slide neatly into his left side. He sliced the man’s throat clean open in wordless response, pulling the sword out of his gut and throwing it down. He had no time to spare on inspecting the wound; he only put his left hand on his stomach in a strange parody of a gentleman’s fencing stance, pressing until he felt blood slide between his fingers, and continued to fight. 

He glanced around, taking in their position. Half of his men down. Exhaustion made others swing wide, flinging sweat from their bodies with each flailing stroke. One fell – Mattion, with a wife and a child on the way. D’Artagnan shouted orders for his men to close ranks. They struggled to follow his orders, stumbling over bodies of the fallen. 

He turned back to his own fight. He had to trust them to stand strong. He couldn’t help them from here; he was a soldier, and there was work to do. 

The handle of a discharged pistol, flipped around in the palm of an enemy soldier and used as a club, struck d’Artagnan on the jaw and snapped his head back. In the blackness behind his eyes he saw a flash of dark red hair, soft and familiar. He blinked the stars out of his vision and caught the pistol on a second pass, wrestling it from the other soldier and using the weapon against its owner. 

A cut to his sternum. A jab at his right thigh. A deep slash across his bicep. A bullet just grazing his hip. He cut each man down as they delivered their last blows upon him. He didn’t realize that he was standing in a pile of bodies, legs planted for balance and dead men holding his feet down, until he tried to parry a blow, overreached, and lost his balance. He toppled. 

The enemy soldier was a dark shape against the bright, sunny sky. D’Artagnan could see his arms moving to bring his weapon down; his torso bunching in reparation of a swing. 

The soldier fell, the retort of a pistol lost in the sounds of battle. D’Artagnan hadn’t seen who had fired. It didn’t matter. 

The sounds, the smells of battle, the glaring sky: they all slipped away as d’Artagnan closed his eyes. There was no more fighting for him; he was a soldier who had failed his duty. 

But there was no need to concentrate of the battle now, in the buzzing silence before he was pulled to the grave, and so he let himself think of Constance and Porthos. That familiar red hair, those flowers, that laugh, those kisses, those dark eyes. His wife. His husband. 

He would have liked to see them again. 

* * *

“D’Artagnan, if you die on me I’ll kill you myself!” 

Coming back to life was an effort. D’Artagnan struggled out of the thick, dragging pull of sleep. His instincts told him to wake up and answer the general who was yelling at him, but every bone and muscle in his body ached. He tried to breathe, and felt blood well up in his mouth. He gagged and coughed. 

Hands turned him to the side so he could gasp for air. He knew those hands, knew their touch and their calm administrations. 

“The queen,” he choked out. 

“Lay down!” 

“The queen,” he insisted, weak under Constance’s hands pressing his shoulders to the ground. “You’re supposed to be with her.” 

“Is this a common thing, to argue while bleeding out?” Constance’s voice was high with anxiety but her hands didn’t waver as she applied a needle to d’Artagnan’s side. “I need assistance!” she yelled. She added, in a quieter but no calmer tone, “Porthos did that too. Yelled at me up and down for coming here. Like I couldn’t take care of myself.” 

“Porthos?” D’Artagnan choked on more blood. 

“He’s fine. Stop talking!” 

D’Artagnan finally wrenched his eyes open. Constance was leaning over him in wartime disarray, her hair tightly bound in a braided bun with wisps escaping over her sweaty forehead. Her face was streaked with grime and blood, and she looked grimly determined. She raised her head and shouted, “I wasn’t joking about needing assistance!” 

When she looked back down, her eyes softened into something like sorrow when she saw d’Artagnan looking blearily at her. The sadness was only there for a moment, covered quickly with a smile as she cupped his cheek, but it was so deep and dark that it almost left d’Artagnan breathless all over again. 

“Hello, my fine soldier,” she said. “You’ve got yourself into quite a mess, haven’t you?” 

He wanted to ask about Porthos, whether he was really alright; or make sure Constance hadn’t been missed in the Queensguard if she had left to tend to him. But he only had breath for one word, and so he gasped, “ _Constance_.” 

“I’m here,” Constance whispered. “I’m going to–” Words of assurance seemed to fail her. “I’m here.” She raised her head again, shouting for help. The long stretch of her pale neck was pink with smeared blood, like paint on a whitewashed canvas. 

Another voice joined hers: Porthos, mad as a wet cat, bellowing orders for medics to shift themselves and help a soldier in need, damnation and shame on them for ignoring a woman doctor’s call for help, he’d have their rations cut for their pride and no mistake. 

D’Artagnan tried to hold on until he could see Porthos, to laugh at him and say that Porthos didn’t even have the authority to cut rations. But his eyelids betrayed him, sinking down until all was dark. 

He still held a tenuous grasp on consciousness, and he felt the heat of Porthos’s bulk settling beside him. Porthos held d’Artagnan down when he twitched against the invasive needle and forceps, until d’Artagnan faded into a half-sleep, aware of Constance’s voice and Porthos’ presence but unable to conceive of a world beyond. France, the battle, the other soldiers in the tent, even the doctors working on him: all could have been smoke and shadows. Constance and Porthos shone like twin suns in the darkness behind his lids. 

He emerged hazily from the darkness into another kind of night, this one natural and not an effect of his fevered mind. He was too warm, shivering in the cool night. There was a warm weight against his side. A lock of hair tickled his cheek. Constance, then. She wouldn’t have rested until d’Artagnan was all patched up. D’Artagnan resisted the urge to try to sit up or stretch. Constance’s wrath, upon waking and seeing that he’d torn his stitches, was not worth the risk. 

He realized that Porthos’ voice was a steady sound in the background, like rain falling on the tent. D’Artagnan tried to call to him and succeeded only in grunting. 

Constance was up in a flash, hands patting d’Artagnan’s face and chest. “What hurts?” 

“Nothing,” he tried to say, shaking his head frantically to ease her nerves. He stopped immediately. Everything hurt. 

“Is he awake?” Porthos came into view, hovering above d’Artagnan’s chest. D’Artagnan wheezed, hands grasping at his thin blanket. Porthos knelt down, his voice low and soothing. “Papion, Martin, Poirier, and le Roul are fine. A bullet took Michaud’s leg. Firmin lost his arm but it was a clean cut. The rest…” 

Porthos bowed his head. D’Artagnan didn’t dare shut his eyes, fearful of falling back into that grey half-sleep, but a few tears flooded his vision. So many of his men…

“It’s not your fault,” Porthos said. 

D’Artagnan ignored that and blinked the tears from his eyes. He rolled his head to look at Constance. “The queen,” he mouthed. 

Constance’s eyes softened. “She’ll be just fine. I have Fleur acting as midwife. My place is here with you. Both of you.” Constance scrabbled for Porthos’ hand without looking away from d’Artagnan. Porthos made it easy for her and clasped her small, roughened hand in his, not wincing when she squeezed so tightly her nails dug into his skin. 

“I’m going to see you well,” Constance said, this time making it through the meaningless reassurance with composure. “We’ve patched you all up.” 

“You’ll be back on your feet in no time,” Porthos added. 

“And I meant it,” Constance tried to joke; “If you die, I’m gonna kill you.” 

D’Artagnan looked at their matching smiles, both of them weak with uncertainty and nerves; so unlike the smiles he was used to seeing. Where was Porthos’ booming laugh and his crinkled eyes; where was the lightness in Constance’s face that matched her spirits when she saw d’Artagnan and Porthos home safe? 

He had been married to both of them for too long to ignore the doubt and fear plain on their faces. 

Porthos glanced up and twitched as if to rise. “The captain’s calling,” he said. “I’ll leave you two alone. You should have unrestricted access to him,” he added to Constance. “You’re his doctor and his wife. If anyone tries to make you leave, come to me.” 

D’Artagnan gasped, “ _Ours_ ,” and reached for Porthos. 

The other man caught d’Artagnan’s hand. D’Artagnan tried to tug free; Porthos was trying to comfort him and it wasn’t supposed to be like that. D’Artagnan had to  _tell_  him, d’Artagnan had to comfort Porthos. These were no meaningless assurances; this was the truth he needed Porthos to know in case… just in case. 

He forced the words out of his dry throat. 

“Ours.” He slid his eyes to Constance. “She’s… our wife. You’re… mine. Husband.” 

He tugged Porthos’ hand to his face, trying to kiss his knuckles. Porthos pressed his hand against d’Artagnan’s mouth obligingly, and drew it away red-brown with blood. 

Porthos bent and kissed d’Artagnan, uncaring of smearing himself with more blood. He licked inside d’Artagnan’s mouth, taking the copper tang and replacing it with the bold, warm taste of  _Porthos_. D’Artagnan didn’t try to breathe, didn’t need to breathe with Porthos sustaining him like this. 

He coughed when Porthos pulled away. Constance put a firm hand on d’Artagnan’s stomach to hold his stitches in place. 

“I know,” Porthos said roughly. He was still holding Constance’s other hand. “We joke about it, but I’ve always known. You’re my husband, d’Artagnan, and you’re not dying on me. Not today. Alright?” 

D’Artagnan nodded. 

Porthos turned to Constance. “Look after our husband,” he said softly. Constance nodded, and then darted forward to claim her own kiss. 

D’Artagnan smiled for the first time since he had hugged Porthos before the battle. His wife and his husband.

They looked funny from here, Constance’s strands of flyaway hair poking into Porthos’ eye, and Porthos twisted awkwardly in his crouch. He’d have to tease them about it later. Then maybe Porthos could call him “husband” a few more times. It was good that Porthos knew. Good that they both knew. 

D’Artagnan sighed with content and closed his eyes, surrendering himself willingly to the dark of unconsciousness. 


End file.
